


Bottom of A Heartbreak

by Sei_Bellissima



Category: Griftlands (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Body Horror, Families of Choice, Gen, Mind Control, Parasites, Posted During Early Access, Swearing, seriously there’s a lot of bloodshed, slight gore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:08:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27259189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sei_Bellissima/pseuds/Sei_Bellissima
Summary: Rook let those parasites he picked up from Grout Bog fester and thrive much longer than he wanted to, and it's becoming a chore to keep it a secret from his new friends. Sal and Smith shouldn't have to worry about him; he's been on his own for so long. He could take care of things himself...Little does he know he's about to dragged into a disaster none of them were anticipating—held prisoner in his own body, overrun by parasites, and quickly losing hope...-HEED THE TAGS FOR THE LOVE OF HESH! This is not a lighthearted story. You have been warned.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	1. Tear It Down

**Author's Note:**

> Not a new fandom now, but definitely new material for me. I’ve tread carefully, as you can see by the happy ending tag—bad endings are really hard for me to write and a bad ending wasn’t part of the original idea anyway (Speaking of that, shoutout to my pals in the Griftlands fan discord for the idea you all give me life <3)
> 
> No tooltip things this time as my other fic was a big experiment in general with workskins. I focused more on the angst this time around :)

This road was a well-traveled one, evidenced by the visible dip in the dirt, curving up to meet a field of grass on either side. Nothing was particularly remarkable about this path; it was simply a connection between their starting point and their destination, like so many other roads worn into the ground of Havaria. There was no canopy of any form to shield the travelers from the heat of the sun, leaving them to bake in the daylight. Rook would’ve taken off his hood if it weren’t for—

_Don’t think about it._

The slip-up nearly caused him to trip over his own feet; and he sped up for a few seconds to avoid any suspicion from the two that were trailing him. Judging by their ongoing conversation, they didn’t notice. Something about the cuisine in Murder Bay. He wasn’t paying too much attention; his mind was elsewhere.

Sal and Smith were an interesting pair, to say the least. When Rook first met them, nothing special about them struck him—at first. One was a hunter, the other a vagrant. They had met on awkward terms; it was late and Rook was looking for a place to stay for the night: he had a brief respite from his work and was somewhere on the perimeter of Murder Bay with nothing else to do. But then Sal stumbled through the bushes, desperation planting a glint in her eye, and, upon seeing the guns on his belt, ran up to him and waved a stack of shills haphazardly in front of his face—begging him all the while to help her. Her friend was being held hostage, and she couldn’t face the threat alone.

He had grabbed the shills with a steady hand, his gaze even steadier. He wasn’t sure what to expect as she led him through the bushes, deep into the forest. Finding her friend, Smith, laying in the middle of a clearing, bound up, gagged and bruised certainly wasn’t a surprise. What did surprise him was that there was not another soul in sight.

Even further surprising—a bandit rushed him from behind seconds later, arm tight around his neck and the tip of a blade pressed to his chin. Fingers flying to his neck, Rook shut his eyes tightly, bent his knees and the two of them ended up losing balance and they fell sideways onto the grass—but his assailant didn’t seem to be phased, the knife remaining in the same spot as it was before.

“You’ve fallen right into our trap, grifter!”

Rook couldn’t answer. He could breathe, yes, but the pressure on his windpipe was too much for his voice to be anything more than a croak.

“Now listen. You’re gonna help us get that other grifter, and we’ll pay you for your service. But if you don’t...”

The tip of the knife pressed a little further, sending the slightest chill down his spine.

In that moment, he was considering taking the offer. For the money, if not for his life. Sal had give him money so he had already made a payday, and, if he had counted the number of feet kicking up the dust in front of him, they were outnumbered. It wouldn’t have been the first time he turned on someone and it would’ve been an easy job—

But there was suddenly a yell of agony in Rook’s ear and the arm around his throat slipped away, the knife with it. He stumbled to his feet and found the man flat on his stomach, the life in his eyes already fading—and only then did Rook see the deep stab wound in his back, blood dripping out the side. Hovered over him was the shaky form of Sal, her face a rich crimson, eyes bright with fury. She looked up and their eyes locked for the briefest moment.

She had just saved him.

“Watch out!”

Rook had turned around just in time to see the approaching fist of another bandit and he ducked before returning the favor by striking his assaulter square in the gut, throwing his entire shoulder into them. They fell to the ground as he drew his gun, and before they could catch their breath they found themself staring down the barrel of one of his pistols. “Don’t move.” With their hands raised, they complied, save for their involuntary shaking.

Over the bandit’s shoulder Rook could see Sal slicing away at another bandit, but not enough to leave them with any substantial wounds. She was relentless, ducking and dodging, landing a hit with her elbow or knee whenever she could. With their waning energy Sal was able to knock them down with a sharp hook.

She went to Smith, cutting through the ropes like it was a thin thread. The way he rose from the ground was oddly menacing, his form tall and muscular—Rook had never seen a kra’deshi so big. His movements were slow and methodical; he retrieved a weapon from the bushes and started walking up to him and the bandit, gaze full of ice—

He leaped back as Smith swung his hammer into the side of the bandit’s head hard enough to leave a dent; and they rolled over twice before stopping, limp as a rag doll. The last of the bandits had seen enough and they fled like Hesh itself was after them.

“Smith, are you okay? Let’s get away from here.” It was like a switch had been flipped and turned Sal into a totally different person: her voice was ten times softer; absent of the acidity lacing her battle cries as she fought earlier. The flush was fading from her face as she curled her hands around his thick arm, her fingers nowhere near being able to encircle the bulk. She glanced back to Rook, as if to ask him if he was coming, and for whatever stupid reason his tired mind decided he would come along for the show.

That show ended up being the largest amount of compassion he’d ever seen someone express for another. Sal had a deep-set furrow in her brow as she dressed Smith’s wounds, iced his bruises and rubbed the ache from his shoulders. Smith let her do what she wanted, however, he was quipping at her the whole time. The comments were innocent and silly enough that Rook couldn’t tell if he was laughing off her concern or trying to make her feel better. Whatever the case, her face eventually softened and suddenly she was getting back at him, coming up with witty comebacks and even playfully nudging at his shoulders and eyestalks.

Something changed inside of Rook that night. Seeing Sal fuss over Smith, then the two of them joking and laughing like they had known each other their whole life planted a warmth in his chest that he wasn’t familiar with.

It wasn’t an unwelcome feeling either, though. He could get used to it.

Despite his injuries Smith was more than happy to drag them to a bar, and he ordered Rook a few drinks as a thank-you. Small talk turned into long conversations about good times, bad times, times of all kinds—and then they were dragging a drunk kra’deshi into the murky room of a shoddy inn and Rook had _collapsed_ into bed, weary and aching.

Sal had insisted on sleeping on the floor with the extra bedding from the closet. She ignored Rook’s offer to give up the bed and settled down and before he knew it, she was out like a light: her face was soft, tinged pink with slight intoxication.

And as he stared at that face, Rook remembered that he was considering betraying it. And he felt absolutely disgusted at himself.

That was one year ago. One thing led to the next; the next job he had been given permitted Sal and Smith to join him thanks to the rare freedom it came with. Having allies had always made a job easier, and it was no difference with this one—but he didn’t have the heart to abandon or turn on his newfound friends, and instead he let them tag along beyond his work—or maybe _he_ tagged along with _them_. He still wasn’t sure which one it was.

He discovered a lot of things about himself over the course of the year. That rush of excitement he got from fighting alongside someone came back: he thought his time in the Admiralty had sucked that feeling out of him. He also found out just how angry he could get: someone once spiked Smith’s drink at a bar, leaving him unconscious and helpless. Rook was seeing red and he was sure he had scared at least a dozen people from which he tried to pry information. The perpetrator was eventually found out—and Rook shot them on sight. They were never to see the light of day again.

Then there was something else. That warmth that tickled his chest: he was certain he had felt it before, perhaps long ago when he actually had confidence in his work in the Admiralty and enjoyed what he was doing. Now, it came to him when he was playing cards with the other two, or drinking with them in some cozy bar somewhere, watching them talking and enjoying themselves as they circled around a campfire.

It was _love_ , he realized. He loved them. They had filled that hole in his heart that was originally hollowed out by loneliness, and he loved them for it, and for being _them_.

If only he could work up the nerve to tell them that, among certain other things—

_Don’t. Think. About it._

His skin was crawling, shivers running up and down his spine even though it was warm out. But he was fine. He had to be.

His mind wandered back to the present. They were headed towards Pearl-On-Foam so Smith could catch up with his siblings; it had been a while since he had visited. This would be the first time Rook's met them; depending on Smith’s mood, they were pleasant enough people, or absolute nightmares; rarely in-between.

It would take a few more days so they were making a stop along the way; some dubiously cozy little hamlet full of hospitable people. “Dubious” because they had gotten this information from a group of very drunk individuals in a run-down bar off the beaten paths of the largely unsettled land they were traversing.

“Rook, where are you going?”

Sal’s voice shook him out of his thoughts, and he stopped. He hadn’t really been paying attention to his surroundings, and, looking down, he discovered that he had somehow wandered up the sloped path and into the tall grass, the long blades brushing against his hands and tickling his knuckles. He turned around and trotted back onto the trail, painting his expression with a sheepish smile. “Right into the field, it seems!” he chuckled.

His attempt to wave it off seemed to placate Smith, at least—whatever little concern that was visible in those blank eyes of his vanished, and a big smile was plastered to his face. Sal stared at him a bit longer, studying him—

“You okay, Rook?”

Well then. That wasn’t good. He’s tried his best to keep his recent… scatterbrained tendencies a secret. Seems like it was starting to shine through. _And he still wasn’t ready to talk about it_. Not until he got help; he had specifically asked for medical leave and he wasn’t about to squander that hard-earned off time.

Yet another shiver threatened to sweep through him and he swallowed, clenching his fists, desperately trying to hide it in front of the scrutinizing eyes. “I just slept bad last night. I’m fine.”

Sal shrugged, in what looked like a gesture of reluctant acceptance. “If you say so.” She strolled up to him, the traces of a smile darting across her face. “Hey, if something’s bothering you, you can tell us—”

_No, I can’t!_

“—we can help you—”

_Not with this, not with this—_

“—because you’re our friend. We care about you, you know!”

_She was onto him—_

“...And I care too, about both of you.” He put on the softest facade he could muster, mustache tickling his nose as it curved up with his rushed grin.

Whatever horrible expression he came up with, it worked—she gave him a pat on the shoulder and continued walking ahead, Smith following soon after.

Swiping the sweat from his brow, Rook let the trembling take hold of him, now that he was out of sight of prying eyes—but he didn’t let that stop him from keeping up, his feet quick, if unsteady.

* * *

Normally, Rook loved to indulge in the rich, savory flavor of roasted hawb drumsticks—Sal had put an excellent spin on the dish by adding a tasty blend of spices. She wasn’t the best cook, she admitted it herself—but it was better than most of the stuff Rook had eaten in his life.

Tonight, however, his stomach was churning. It had been, for at least a month, now. It was hard to enjoy food when your stomach felt like it was twisting up into a thousand knots. He ended up picking all the meat off the bone and dumping it into the overgrown brush behind him when the others weren’t looking, leaving a clean bone on his plate.

Their bedtime routine was always a bit chaotic in that Smith would fight with their giant, shared tent as he set it up. He always insisted on setting it up himself, and every time, without fail, he ended up receiving help from the others.

It seemed like it was about that time: the metal support poles lost their integrity after not being attached correctly and they fell over, the whole tent going with it. Smith let out another spew of curses, prompting a laugh from Sal as he got up to start helping with it, Rook begrudgingly following. After much protest, Smith accepted their help and the tent was standing within minutes.

Sleeping bags were unrolled and occupied—but one occupant found himself twisting around in the bag, skin like ice. Not one position felt comfortable, and soon enough, all his tossing and turning woke someone up. Hesh damnit.

Sal was much more observant than Smith. She was able to read faces, body language, the slightest turn of a wrist so well. Rook had years of training in the art of gathering intentions, weaknesses and feelings from the way someone moved, acted or spoke. So it was saying a lot—Sal practically had to teach herself all of that, as she had spent much of her life slaving away on a lumin derrick out on the sea somewhere. Rook was surprised how open she was about her past.

“Rook, you’re shivering. You cold?”

“Mmmmph.” He turned on his side, facing away from her. “Go back to sleep.”

But she didn’t—instead he felt her settle behind him, wrapping her warm arms around his shoulders.

“What are you doing?”

“Sharing body heat. We did this a lot on the derricks. Could get real chilly out on the open sea.”

“...We did that in the aerostat, too.” He didn’t like to talk about his own past, much. It was full of unpleasant memories. Killing hundreds of innocents, imprisoning more, destroying prized possessions in the name of the law, and allies dying right in front of his eyes. If he could turn back the clock and undo everything, prevent all those bad things he was a part of, he would. But then again, he might have never met Sal and Smith.

Sal hummed in interest, and he felt it rumbling in her chest, pressed up against his back. “...I’ve heard former Admiralty talk about all the shit they went through. Those few that were in the aerostat made it sound even worse—”

“Sal. I’d rather not go into further detail.”

“Right, sorry.”

They fell into an awkward moment of silence—as silent as it could get with Smith noisily snoring near them. Sal eventually spoke again.

“I’m sorry, I’m probably bothering you; I’ll go back to my own ba—”

“No, no, you can stay… It’s nice, actually. Having you nearby, I mean.”

_Did he really just say that out loud—_

“Awww, you’re going soft!”

“No I’m not, I just—ugh, go to sleep already.”

She giggled, “I will then. Goodnight, Rook.”

“Goodnight.”

As much as Rook hated to admit it, he did indeed feel warmer with her close. With the warmth, he finally found himself able to drift off to sleep.

* * *

Rook woke up groggy. Again. Normally he was bright and chipper in the morning, ready to take on whatever the world threw at him. This was just another one of the ailments plaguing his body recently and he _did not like it_.

He forced his body to wake up as he straightened himself up, discovering in the process that Sal and Smith were already awake and probably waiting for him outside. Normally he was up before them, too.

After getting his vest on, he slipped quietly through the tent flaps and was hit with the crisp coolness of the morning air. Surveying their temporary campsite, He found Sal poking at a fire she must have lit at some point, and Smith idly munching on some snacks they had packed for the trip—dried fruit, from the looks of it.

They didn’t notice him until he strutted up to the fire, sitting on the same log he used last night. Both of them smiled, but Sal’s was touched with a bit of concern. “Look who finally got up!”

“Good morning to you too.” Rook reached into the pocket of his pants, retrieving a small comb with which he started to gently brush his mustache.

Sal threw another stick into the fire, yet her gaze never left him. “Did you sleep any better last night? No offense, but you kinda look like shit.”

“I slept as well as I could. It’s enough to get me through the day, certainly.”

She frowned, and hunched over, elbows on her knees, and she stared at him intensely. She didn’t believe him. “My point from yesterday still stands, you know. If something’s wrong, you can come to us for help.”

“And if there is, I will. I’m fine, Sal.” He flicked the brush in a practiced motion, his mustache losing the knots it accumulated in his sleep and adopting its familiar shape. “Just having a bit of insomnia. Nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”

Sal shrugged. “If you say so.”

Smith was blissfully unaware of the conversation; he was simply too busy trying to get at least one more drop out of his already empty flask. At least, until Sal punched him in the shoulder.

“Whoa; what the Hesh?!”

“We just got up; can’t you wait?”

He blinked at her, and Rook could see the gears turning in his head, like he was trying to process a witty response. Rook wasn’t disappointed by what eventually came out:

“No!”

This was said very loudly, with a large, innocent grin on Smith’s face. Sal just groaned loudly and buried her face in her hands. Rook smiled, put away his comb and got up, starting to pack things up. Better get going soon; they had wanted to reach the Pearl by the end of the week…

* * *

As the morning dragged on, the pleasant chilliness started to fade, transfiguring into an almost temperate warmth—nowhere near reminiscent of yesterday’s heat, but if the temperature kept rising like this, they would be baking again by midday. There was a large canopy of clouds creeping over the horizon, however—thick clouds, the bottoms shadowy and ominous, hinting at a storm ahead. Maybe it would spare them of another heat wave and give them a much-needed break.

Speaking of breaks—they had just stumbled upon the first building they’ve seen in _days_. A tiny little settlement embellished by a bright neon sign advertising food and drink. They hadn’t exactly had a filling breakfast, and Smith was really, _really_ thirsty for something other than water: a pit stop here wouldn’t hurt at all, they decided.

It was a very plain, nondescript bar; set up simply for the purpose of serving hungry and thirsty patrons. The only means of entertainment that could be found was the tiny, lumin-powered radio on a shelf behind the bar. Manning the bar was a bedraggled human man, long, curly facial hair sheen with grease.

Smith didn’t care about any of it and dragged the others into a tiny booth, perusing the beer selection on the menu placed on the table. The leather was stained and peeling; it needed as much maintenance as the rest of the neglected building.

The food they settled on, like the rest of the bar, was nothing special—slightly overcooked, bland fare that didn’t hold up to what they prepared for themselves on the road. Rook wasn’t that hungry anyway.

The best thing about the place ended up being that it had a functional bathroom. However it was only big enough for one of them to go at a time, so that was what they did, as Smith made his first order of booze. (“If you get anymore, save it for the road, _please_!”)

Rook’s turn was last. He made sure that it was, for very good reason:

He tore off his jacket and undershirt, leaning heavily on the sink, back hunched, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles were white. He watched the tendrils in his arms, like large, swollen blood vessels, writhe and squirm, his skin burning at the sensation. He hadn’t checked himself for a few days yet somehow, in those few days this had somehow escalated into a problem much worse than he’d ever imagine it to be.

He knew he had picked up some parasites from the bog, and he had been meaning to get them removed. But he had been given his next job quicker than he had anticipated, an urgent one, too. It forced him to have to deal with it for longer, and the parasites grew, spreading through his body like the branches of a tree. Things started happening too quickly for him to catch his breath. After getting his medical leave he had hoped he would find some time to take it out but it had gotten to a point where he was… almost afraid to get the parasites out. They had rooted themselves so deeply in his body… just how much damage would it cause when they were removed?

With trembling hands he drew a small blade from his belt, and traced the tip across one of the bulging, angry red lines, stifling a cry of pain as he cut through his skin. The tendril slipped out of his skin and wriggled excitedly. He cringed and plunged the blade into his elbow, cutting it out and severing more skin than he needed to in the process—he grabbed the thing before it could squirm away and threw it into the toilet to flush it down. His blood stained the water as it was sucked down, writhing grotesquely all the while. Rook was left panting heavily, staring at the stump of the tendril still left in his elbow. It was _still shifting_ and he couldn’t help the shudder that swept through his body. Even though he had cut these things out of his body multiple times, now, seeing something _moving inside h_ _is_ _bo_ _dy_ was still a sight he found himself unable to get used to.

He tore his gaze away from his arm and took a good look at himself in the mirror. His face had a sickly pallor to it, and his eyes were bloodshot— _except for that third eye which shouldn’t be there—_

_Get a hold of yourself, Rook!_

His hands flew to the faucet, getting filled up with icy cold water to splash his face—he did this multiple times, then looked back at the mirror. The third eye was gone, but he was sure a part of his sanity had slipped away with it.

Shaking his head, he grabbed the toilet paper and tried to soak up his bloody mess. Some of it had stained the floor already, and he couldn’t get it out. He had to go, get himself and the others out of here before they could notice the mess he made. That’s all he ever did now. He just kept messing things up for himself and others; he kept digging himself into this hole and before he knew it he was going to be too deep to be rescued—

He stuffed the bloodied tissues in the trash, wrapped up his forearm the best he could, threw his clothes back on—as well as a collected facade, his eyes steely and cold. Just like spy work. Easy…

He strolled out, produced a fat stack of shills and slammed them on the table—Smith visibly jumped in surprise. Sal peered at him from over a mug he didn’t remember her having before.

“We’re leaving.”

The two of them muttered “What?” at the same time, getting up from the table. Rook was already heading for the door.

"Rook, wait! What’s going on?”

The overwhelming concern in her voice crushed his heart, yet he sped up, trying to escape the footsteps of his pursuer but she caught up anyway, and he felt her grab his shoulder and suddenly he found himself whipping around, gaze rife with acidity.

“We need to _leave_ , _that’s_ what’s going on. We are already running behind schedule as it is!”

Rook had to admit, it took him a minute to notice Sal’s face. She looked shocked, disturbed, maybe even a little… sad?

The malice in his eyes was replaced with shame and he quickly turned to hide them, storming out the door, footsteps loud and angry.

More footsteps revealed Smith was closing in behind her. “I didn't even know we were on a schedule.”

“Me neither.” One of Smith's big, warm hands was placed on her shoulder and she reached up, tracing her fingers over his knuckles. “I think I've been a little too pushy with him lately...”

“Nah. He's just impatient; give him some time to cool off.”

“...I guess.”

* * *

Rook was more than content to take the lead once again as they traveled. He felt ashamed for what he did earlier, really, but he was too mortified to bring it up to them at the moment. To be honest, he wasn’t even really sure why he snapped like that. It was like some angrier version of himself had taken over and lashed out at poor Sal. Or maybe it _was_ just him—the stress from dealing with these parasites was starting to get to him. He was attuned to keeping his emotions in check, normally; but everyone had a breaking point. He had a feeling his own was creeping up quickly and he wasn’t sure if he was mentally equipped to handle it. Not only that, he had no idea how Sal and Smith would react. They had seen him get angry to the point of tears before, yes, but he had never broken down in front of them, weak and vulnerable and ugly crying like he had been when one of his closest friends in the aerostat up and died in his arms.

He could feel them staring holes into the back of his head. Or was that just those damn parasites trying to take over his brain? Every now and then he’d zone out and hear these voices in his damn head, giving him these bizarre and upsetting intrusive thoughts that he actually had impulses to act out on; and he had to force himself to sit still, to not bring them to fruition. Hurting himself, or his friends, or destroying things, setting things on fire—and most strikingly, returning to the bog to let it embrace him.

He wiped the sweat from his brow. He was thankful he chose to take the lead, too, because then the others couldn’t see him in this state. He must look terrible right now. He didn’t want them to worry over him… It was only a matter of time before they found out, though. Because it had gotten so bad he wouldn’t be able to hide it for forever. Hopefully he would be somewhere he would be able to get help by then…

* * *

They were walking for hours, now, and his legs were basically moving on autopilot after not having to take many twists or turns on the trail. But they _ached_ and he wasn’t sure why—okay, he did know. But he didn’t want to think about it. Those voices were yelling at him in his head again and he was desperately smothering them, keeping them down… His fists were shaking, like it was an effort. _It was_. The voices were more like an _urge_ now, and it was scaring him. He felt sick to his stomach…

He realized they had wandered into a patch of woods not too long ago. He could do his business somewhere shaded, get some privacy; process some more of the hell in his body.

“I need to take a bathroom break,” he announced, and the others stopped, signaling that they heard him. Rook veered off the trail, heading into a discreet little area covered in the brush—and promptly collapsed onto his knees, panting hard. The pain was getting worse, to the point where his body felt all weak and shaky and his eyes were tearing up. Now that he wasn’t trying to hide all that discomfort it had hit him full-force and he could swear, the pain was intensifying by the second. It hurt even more than when he had to get his leg amputated, and _that_ had hurt like fucking hell. It was like he had been hit by lightning, his blood set on fire, and it burned, burned, burned—

Rook could feel _it_ moving around inside of him. Churning, squirming, wiggling around underneath his skin, stretching it this way and that, the pulling sensation that accompanied it more excruciating than he ever imagined.

It _hurt_

_so_

_**much** _

The last thing he remembered was the pain in his neck spiking to a flamboyant level, and the taste of bile rising up in his throat.


	2. Wake Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to cheerful christmas music as I wrote this like some kind of weird sadistic maniac
> 
> anyway this chapter's a bit shorter but pacing be hard, ya know?

For a moment, all Rook knew was pain. It kept him weighed down, deep in the throes of his unconsciousness, unable to surface and see the light of day.

But Rook wasn't one to give in so easily. He buried that burden deep inside of him, like so many others before, and shook off the shackles that it had bound to him. With that heavy weight no longer holding him down, he sprawled, climbed, scrambled for the light, for any ray of hope that this was just a bad dream and that he wasn't dead—

That reassurance came, but with it was _pain_.

His vision was a spattering of blurry shapes and colors melding together, holding no form that he could grasp. He could feel an excruciating pulsing in the back of his neck, branching into his lower back—in fact, that was all he could feel of his body. The rest was just—it was numb. It was hard to tell. He didn't exactly feel attached to his own body, for lack of better words. It was there, yes—but he lacked coordination and control, along with feeling. And it was freaking him out.

Was this what dying felt like?

Shoving all these new discomforts down like he normally would have done didn't sound possible. For one, he couldn't move. Secondly—

Suddenly there was a voice, or rather, multiple voices in his head. They were loud and clear enough for him to hear, but if they were saying anything, he couldn't comprehend a single word. The memories from that morning came back to him—but as quickly as they came, they started to fade, and he mentally reached out, trying to hold them together, keep them, but they were slipping away like sand through his fingers, and then—

_**Join the bog. Do not resist.** _

Rook's vision was starting to sharpen. He was in a patch of woods somewhere. Where, he couldn't recall thanks to his memories being stripped from him. But he was moving—someone wasn't carrying him, no, he could see his arms and legs moving. He was hunched over on his hands and feet, crawling forward at an inhuman rate.

But he wasn't doing this. What was happening, _where was he going_ _—_

_**Silence.** _

The pain in his neck spiked, bringing his train of thought to a halt. He couldn't even yell in pain. All he could do was bear through it, watching, waiting, seeing where the monster in his head was taking him, not being able to do a single thing about it.

* * *

“It can't take _that_ long to take a shit.” To entertain himself, Smith had taken to overturning stones littering the side of the forest trail and poking at any bugs and worms he found underneath. Having scarce findings, he was growing bored of it quickly.

“Give the guy a break; it’s been a rough day already.” Sal sighed, “We shouldn’t bother him more than we have to.”

“You still feeling guilty over earlier?” Smith stood up, wiping the mud from his hands onto his pants.

“ _Yeah_. I went past his boundaries.”

“You were _concerned_. Hesh, _I’m_ concerned.” To emphasize his point, Smith pressed his thumb to his chest. “You don’t need glasses to see that something’s eatin’ at him. I’m gonna go check on him.”

“ _Smith_ ,” Sal whined.

“Don’t worry about it. Worst case scenario I’ll see his butt or something.”

Seeing as she wasn’t getting anywhere with her protest, Sal gave in, letting Smith wander into the brush where Rook had gone.

* * *

Flying insects buzzed by Smith’s ears and with each step, the fallen leaves underfoot made a satisfying _crunch_. The ambiance couldn’t shake him from his thoughts, however.

Smith thought of himself as a fun person. Pleasant to be around at his best, maybe a mild nuisance at his worst. He didn’t like dragging his friends down. He never had it worse than them; he didn’t want to make those occasional bad times any worse than they already were. So he always tried his best to find the bright side of things, to keep a smile on his face: it could get tough and heartrending, but it was always worth seeing his friends finally relax after they rode out the dark and thunderous storm.

He would always shoulder their burdens, no matter how heavy. That was why he didn’t want to show that the worry was starting to get to him—obviously, something was up with Rook. He hated to see the guy so worked up and he knew Sal did too—but her approach wasn’t working; it was past the time for him to step in and he felt guilty he hadn’t done so earlier.

Perhaps he could make up for it, now.

The rhythmic crunching of leaves was interrupted by a loud _snap_ —Smith stopped in his tracks. Still, there were only leaves under his feet. The sound must have come from something else, he concluded—the buzzing insects had become silent. All that was left was the slight rustling of the leaves as a light breeze swept through the forest.

His fingers crept towards the handle of his hammer, which was slung to his back. His eyes darted among the trees, looking for the source of the sound as he tiptoed through the brush, and into a small clearing—but then a heavy thump encouraged him to grasp his hammer handle and he whipped towards the sound—and his jaw dropped.

A humanoid figure, down on all fours, was crawling out of the bushes in a slow, ominous manner. It was bare-backed, skin-and-bone, hunched over, skin ugly shades of tan, green and purple all mixed together like some repugnant painting. Spiked tentacles sprouted from the back and shoulders, thorny protrusions coming out of its head—which was lifted as the figure fully emerged from the overgrowth. Smith’s heart leapt into his throat, which was feeling tight now, as was his chest.

There was Rook, eyes yellow with sharp, skinny pupils, like that of a feline’s, a third eye in the middle of his forehead. His pants were ripped, his cap and jacket were gone, and his mustache was frayed and his prosthetic leg was coming apart at the seams. He opened his mouth and out came a hiss that was surely not from him but whatever monster had taken over his body and never in his life had Smith felt so _terrified_. As sweat came off of him in buckets, he stood there frozen, transfixed by the horror of what his dear friend had become.

It was only when a tendril coming from Rook’s back snap towards him did Smith find his feet, and he turned and bolted back down the path, screaming at the top of his lungs.

“ _Sal!_ ”

* * *

At the sound of Smith’s voice, Sal was on her feet in an instant. She started running towards the sound of his yells with a hand hovering over the hilt of her dagger: there was a terror in his voice that made her blood run cold. Smith wasn’t known to be frightened often, so when he was, something was very, _very_ wrong.

And there he was, paler than she’d ever seen him, footsteps so heavy they were leaving deep tracks in the dirt. It didn’t take them long to close the distance and he hunched over. Bracing her feet in the dirt Sal put her arms up against his chest. She wasn’t strong enough to catch him if he fell, but she could certainly soften the fall. “Smith, what the Hesh happened?”

It a few seconds of him gasping for air before he could give her something that counted as a comprehensible answer: “We have to get out of here.” His eyes were wide and filled with a fear Sal wasn’t used to seeing.

Despite this, she still had one concern on her mind. “What? No! We can’t leave without Rook!”

“That’s the thing, he’s—”

Before he could explain himself, a disfigured human form came crawling out of the bushes. Sal saw the metal leg attached to it, and her chest tightened. She understood part of what was happening, now, but she couldn’t comprehend the rest on account of the panic starting to settle in.

“What. The fuck?!”

“Just _run!_ ”

Sal swore she blacked out for a second. Either that or her mind just couldn’t process what was happening, because one minute she felt Smith’s hands grab her shoulders, and her feet pounding against the path; the next she had been whisked up into Smith’s arms and carried bridal style.

She couldn’t get the image of Rook’s face out of her head. Three big yellow eyes, wide and furious, jaw opened wide to reveal a segmented tongue that wasn’t his own. It wasn’t natural, it wasn’t right—and she couldn’t even begin to imagine just how much pain he must have been in, if he was even conscious.

To give herself leverage she grabbed Smith’s arm, then pulled herself backwards to look behind them: Rook was nowhere in sight. Seems like Smith didn’t care and was just running simply for the sake of putting distance between them, now.

“Sal? What’s going on?”

Sal opted to answer by suddenly lunging forward, leaping out of Smith’s arms, grabbing his other arm and then dragging him off the side of the road into the brush. She immediately regretted it when he ended up on top of her, squeezing the air out of her lungs.

“Ow; the fuck?”

Sal wheezed and started pushing against his giant body. With him being as heavy as he was, she could barely make him budge. “Smith, get off of me—”

“Oh, sorry.” He rolled off of her and she gasped, filling her starved lungs. They took a second to get their bearings, and then they rolled onto their tummies to quietly crawl away from the path, further into the overgrowth. The stench of wet leaves filled their nostrils, and it did no good for the dull headache that had formed in the back of Smith’s head. The stress was already starting to get to him—his body never responded well to anxiety, to the point where he would develop a fever in extreme cases. It never was a comfortable experience.

When they were comfortably far enough from the path, they laid there, panting, the slight humidity in the air only making their chests ache more.

Then, after a moment, Sal’s voice broke the relative silence.

“Heshdamnit!” She held her head in her hands, running her fingers through her sweaty hair. “I—I didn’t think that _this_ was what was wrong with him, I—”

“You’re not alone in that boat. But I see why he was being so secretive about it now.”

“He shouldn’t have been hiding a problem like this in the first place though!”

Smith could hear her voice crack, but only for a brief moment.

“I just…” she sighed, a leaf getting blown forward by her heavy breath. “This is my fault; I shouldn’t have been so pushy…”

“Hang on just a minute.” Smith’s voice had lowered to a growl, “You’re saying you think you’re responsible for a bunch of tentacles coming out of Rook’s body?”

“No! I’m saying if I wasn’t so pushy, maybe he would’ve come to us with his issues. I just ended up pressuring him and making him hide it away more,” she explained through gritted teeth. “And of course, if anyone can hide a problem as huge as this, it’s Rook.” She sighed again, “What do we do…”

She felt Smith’s big hand on her shoulder. “You’ve got a point there. But the thing is, Rook likes hiding. I don’t think you’re to be blamed here.”

She didn’t respond, and instead she sat there, chin resting on her folded arms, face tense and brows furrowed. “Yeah, okay, what’s going on with him anyway? You got any ideas?”

Her gaze shifted downwards, and her face softened slightly. Good, he gave her something to temporarily get her mind off of her guilt.

After a minute, she spoke again: “Remember that Rook said he was doing some undercover work in Grout Bog?”

Smith nodded.

“Mom would always tell me to be careful of the things I touch in the bog. Dirty things, poisonous things, dangerous things.” Her eyes glistened with a nostalgia Smith was growing familiar with. Sal often liked to reminisce about her better childhood days. “There was always some sort of disease, bug, or parasite lurking about. The bog is warm and humid enough for stuff like that to flourish there.”

“You’re not saying…”

That look of longing had faded from Sal’s face now, replaced by a grim expression that planted a seed of dread in his stomach. “Some parasites were especially dangerous. There would be reports of bodies just… taken over, or eaten up like a yote had gotten to their corpses.”

It didn’t take too long for the realization to hit Smith and that seed of dread grew all at once, spreading through his body, seizing him with fear. His chest felt tighter and he felt his breath coming out in quick bursts. “Parasites…”

She grabbed his shoulder, trying to calm him, to give him a reassuring look. “Hey. It’s gonna be okay.”

“How do we know that? It’s taken over his body already!”

“Yeah, on the outside, but I don’t think it’s taken over entirely, yet… I don’t know about you, but I saw _fear_ in his eyes. It was like he knew what was happening, and he couldn’t do anything about it. Our Rook’s still in there.”

“Okay,” he said blankly. “And how are we going to help him?”

Sal looked away. The gears turned in her wavering eyes. “If he let the parasites grow to this point… I think we’re gonna have to cut it out. And it’s not gonna be pretty.”

“Well, crap.”

“Yeah.”

“...Will he survive?”

“He’s got to. Surely he’s been through worse. That’s not gonna stop me from feeling real guilty though...”

They felt a thumping through the ground, the leaves shuddering at the sound. It was accompanied by a hiss, guttural and bone-chilling. “Here he comes. You ready?”

Smith nodded, but there was a look of unease on his face. Sal didn’t blame him.

Standing up and shaking the leaves off, they jogged back to the path. Rook was approaching quickly— _too_ quickly. His arms and legs were hanging limp—his prosthetic had fallen apart somewhere along the way, leaving only a few plates of metal attached. The tendrils sprouting from his back were the only things supporting his weight and it looked so _unnatural_.

Looking closer now, though, Smith could see what Sal meant—those skinny pupils were shivering slightly, and his lips were pressed tightly into a thin line. It was as if Rook was fighting to regain control of his own body, but Smith couldn’t tell if he was winning or not.

“Don’t worry, Rook,” Sal called out, “we’re gonna save you from... whatever this is!”

Rook blinked, and the pupils became still, the monster taking over and opening his mouth to let out another _hiss_. His arms snapped forward, way too promptly for it to be a human movement, and more tentacles flew towards them. Smith ducked out of the way while Sal sliced through two of the tendrils and dodged a third. But two more sprouted from Rook’s back to take their place, the new growths soaked and dripping with blood. Their friend’s blood.

“It must have gotten him in the back somewhere!” Sal yelled. Smith crushed a chasing tendril with his hammer and the monster hissed again, the tendrils recoiling. Seeing his chance, Smith started running towards Rook—

But he misjudged by a second—the tendrils snapped out again, grabbing him by his wrists and legs. Sal was distracted by a sliced tendril, which she was stomping into the dirt, squashing the life out of it—until Smith called out for her. She turned and her heart fell into her stomach.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” she seethed as she ran towards them. Her heart seized as she saw the monster’s tongue slide out of Rook’s mouth, towards Smith. Blood-laced saliva dripped from the tip.

In a great effort, Sal yelled, rose her arms above her head, and brought them down, slicing through the tendrils in one fell swoop. Smith leapt back and tore the still-rigid tendrils clinging to him off, hyperventilating. He snatched up his hammer and furiously pounded the wriggling tendrils into the ground.

Sal had distracted the monster in the meantime, hitting her blades together like cymbals. “Now would be a good time to get him down, Smith!”

Indeed: Rook’s back was facing him and Smith could see the parasite, in it’s bogly glory, blooming from the back of Rook’s neck and upper back. The tendrils were squirming around in an enchanting dance, blood trickling out of the opening, reddened flesh churning in rhythmic movements, as if the creature’s heart was seated in Rook’s neck. But was that even a heart? Smith didn’t know because he was too transfixed by the horror of it all; that this _thing_ had been living inside of his friend for months, feeding off of him, hurting him—

He let out a roar and threw his hammer aside as he started running. “Smith, no!” Sal cried as Rook whipped around and threw another two tendrils in Smith’s direction—but Smith was prepared this time; he caught them, and, much to his disgust, he felt them squirming around in his mitts. He tugged backward and Rook lost his balance, falling to the ground with a heavy thud.

Rook wasn’t down for long—he lifted his head with a hiss, and then he did the same to Smith, tugging him forward with the tendrils. Smith fell flat on his face and then he heard Sal yell so he was back on his feet near instantly—

Her wrists were caught by the tendrils and Rook’s back was turned to him once more. Smith wasn’t going to waste his chance again.

He charged forward, grabbing Rook by that pulsing spot on his neck—he just barely noticed that it did indeed feel like a heartbeat as he wrestled Rook to the ground. Sal’s wrists slipped out of the tentacles’ grasp, and then Smith had Rook pinned by the wrists, the monster hissing louder than either of them had heard it. The tendrils started reaching towards Smith’s neck and he could feel the slimy tips tracing his skin. It was making his stomach churn and he didn’t know how much longer he could hold Rook down—the monster was putting up quite a fight; it possessed a strength the normal Rook never had.

“Sal, now!”

Sal could’ve put an end to it right then and there.

But for whatever stupid reason, she couldn't bring herself to do it. She was about to dig into the back of her dear friend with the trusty blades she had used for years. She had taken quite a few lives with them.

And she was about to possibly take another, if she wasn’t careful.

As she stood there, hands trembling, she hesitated. Was the risk worth it?

The tendrils were wrapping around Smith’s neck tighter and Sal could see tears welling up in his eyes. Sal could see Rook’s own eyes, yellow, bloodshot and full of fury.

It was worth it.

She ran over, fell to her knees and plunged her blades into Rook’s back, the monster hissing louder as she did so. Blood gushed out of the wounds as she carved further, deeper, until she felt her knives break through some barrier of flesh—she twisted the blades sideways and tugged.

It felt like pulling out a weed. The tendrils slid out of body cavities and whatever vessels they had embedded themselves into with ease, but it was so, so much more than either of them had anticipated. Finally Sal fell back, the monster wrapping its tendrils tight around her arms and screeching so loudly Sal was sure her ears were starting to ring. She tried to shake it off, with no success, but then suddenly there was a flash of blue and it was knocked out of her arms to the ground. She stumbled to her feet as Smith raised his hammer—

And then he brought it down on the creature, its green blood exploding out of its body and splattering all over the two of them.

They stood there, panting, looking at the thing. It was silent, still.

It was dead.


End file.
